Oh Cardassia, what becomes thee?

Of all the things Ramol expected to face while wandering the Promenade, a song had not been one of them.

The voice was soft and had a song like lilt that carried straight to a personâ€™s memory. The tune itself was a classic piece of Cardassian music and it brought back smells and tastes of his youth. He had learned it as he learned the Kotra and had sung it for comfort, as many Cardassians would have, while he huddled against the cold trying to sleep. The words were from â€˜Tearsâ€™ an ancient poem written when most of the resources of Cardassia were being torn apart, before the First Reformation when the military were able to step in re-establish some order.

â€œOh Cardassia, what becomes thee?
Wilt none dance in joy amongst the spice fields of Galoy?
Forsaken the Durmut morning call gathering the prayerful all?
Are Turumâ€™s Plazas more fallow than the Tombs of Aranzas?
Cardassia weeps;
What price the fertile soil, fruitless now for all your toil?
What price the tears of Lamank dry upon her shallow bank?
What price the sunshine or all that was once mine?
Oh Cardassia, what becomes thee?â€

The singer was not a Cardassian though. It was a small rat-like individual looking out one of the upper windows. There was a sorrow to his voice that was unmistakable, as if he had witnessed the fall of the Crystal Towers of Turum himself.

Ramol made his way to one of the spiral stairs that dotted the promenade, a leftover of a more military mindset, built more for symbolism than defensive stategy. There were quite a few people moving to and fro, mostly starfleet personnel going about the business of retrofitting the station to a more Federation-friendly environment.

The person was reciting the last few bars as Ramol made his way over to him. "I see you are a student of culture."

Harlan turned and looked at the large man beside him, "Oh, I am sorry. I thought your people had all left. I am rather glad you haven't."

He looked around the station, "Culture? I think I am a little closer to culture than just student. You recognise the song? I wrote that nearly ten thousand years ago for the Hebitians. I am glad they held on to something."

Harlan frowned, "At least I think it was me. It is hard to tell when it is over four hundred years."

Ramol Lussot folded his hands behind his back. "I am the Cardassian ambassador to this sector, so I may not be staying on Roark Nor for very long. On the other hand, if my assistance is in high demand, it may be months before I have a chance to return home again. Not that a station isn't a fine place to live"

He unclasped his hands and ran a finger down the side of the windowframe, disturbing a thing layer of grime. "The culture in this place is going through change. I only hope it is for the better."

Harlan shrugged, "Given it willl be judged by the new occupants, I am sure they will feel it is for the better. I wonder if the Hebitians would look at Modern Cardassia and feel it had changed for the better."

Harlan smiled, "I think it is just different. Things change so fast that it is hard to get attached to a culture. Take the Humans. They have only been a sentient species for less than half a million years. Cardassia, though, spoke to me somehow. A sad song covered in a military tempo."

Lussot nodded and gazed out of the window breifly "Indeed. Cardassia's history has been a long and bloody one and, although it has fallen on hard times, like it has before, it will return with renewed strength and vigour" He turned back to look at Horlan. "Cardassia, like this station, will endure. It may look different, but it will still be Cardassia."

"Ramol Lussot, Glinn of Cardassia" Lussot shifted his stance, standing in an almost regal way

"Ramol? That is an old name too. I knew a Ramol once."

Harlan blinked, "I am sorry. I am not prone to indulgences of nostalgia. So... have you met the other Ambassadors on the station?"

Lussot shook his head "No. I was not aware there were any other ambassadors on this station. I assumed there would be a few of the unaligned species, but I expected there to be mostly representatives of Federation worlds"

"Well, I think there was talk of a Romulan Delegate, but I don't think that ever came to anything, but there is definitely a Klingon Ambassador in that shop there."

Harlan pointed to a shop on the Promenade which looked indistinguishable from the others.

"Well," he continued with a form of resigned air, "I had better be getting back to work. I think they are going to do experiments on me today. Weee."

Lussot frowned, an action which was barely noticable. A Klingon ambassador? That may prove interesting to keep an eye on. Klingons had been worthy advesaries during the Dominion War. Their tactics were moslty blunt and to the point, but delivered with enough force to get the job done

"I'll look into contacting the Klingons here, thank you. I'm sure if I see you again, I'll let you know how it all turned out". Turning from the window and Harlan, Ramol Lusson strode over to the balcony and stared down into the promenade below, his gaze moving over the bustling personnel like a king might survey his subjects. Yes, he might not be prefect of this installation, or even in charge, but he was a Cardassian, and that has always meant something